Simply Sebastian
by AcornWarrior
Summary: Ciel Phantomhive: my muse, my art. For what am I but simply Sebastian? Drabbles. Updates are sporadic.
1. Simply Sebastian

The only story worth telling is one of emotion.

I am a demon. My sole purpose is to consume souls. When I form a contract with a human, my sole purpose becomes to do what they require with me, and at the end I devour them. While on the human plane, things such as pure lust do not exist for me, because I have no need to recreate, and I am the creator of my body.

A moment of clarification: this doesn't mean I cannot become aroused. Were I required to undergo some kind of activity, either because I was ordered to complete it, or in order to maintain my cover as one hell of a human, it is necessary that my erectile tissue be in working order.

But the only desire I feel is the desire to consume souls.

Weak emotions: amusement, disappointment, murderous intent, nostalgia- these things I can feel, and do, often. But the strong emotions: love, hate, lust, sadness- they often become intermeshed, or at the very least dwarfed, by my desire to slake my hunger. (With the exception of idiots, who can sometimes make me feel a deep emotion that goes beyond anger.)

And this brings me back to my story.

Ciel Phantomhive was 12 when he summoned me; 12 and in pain. His parents had been murdered by a lackey of the Queen of England, and he was being tortured by a cult. He bound me to him, and I freed him, rebuilt his home, set him up as the head of the Phantomhive Estate.

We passed through the months, doing unimportant action after action. I didn't care about any of them, and I refuse to waste my time writing them. The emotions they involved were the important parts.

Even emotions of superiority, arrogance, are delicious. My favorite parts of the escapade with Madame Red and Grell were when Grell was defeated—even if he masked his feelings with his comedy, he experienced true loss and delicious pain, intensified when he underwent the shame of being stepped on by a 'lowly' demon—and when Ciel lost his aunt. The complexities of his sadness, how it turned into anger and hatred and hardened to become strength, while being interwoven with such thin but strong love…that was the true benefit of that experience.

I gave you an example so you can understand how I internalize the things that happen to me when I serve humans. But that's neither the point of this essay, nor something I will bring up again.

Angela brought to attention that it had been a long time since I had consumed souls. That she didn't understand why I wasn't content with a meaningless feast. I make strong bonds with the humans who contract me for the same reasons that Chefs aren't content making Turkey Sandwiches for every meal. It's an art, and if it's not used, and if one is not immersed in it, the spices and juices cannot be as pungent to the tongue. The consumption of souls, and all that goes before it, is my passion.

This is why I excel at it, and push Ciel into many situations that would not be given to him had a different demon been summoned for his employ.

So it is this that makes me enjoy my work as much as I do; but it is also that that makes me go hungry. But this hunger, despite the pangs it sometimes brings, is what allows me to become emotionally attached to the souls I serve. It's why my relationship with Ciel outshines Claude's relationship with Alois.

To answer some questions:

I do enjoy seeing Ciel in a dress. But it has to do with his embarrassment.

If he wasn't embarrassed, I would enjoy it because of the strength and dominance over pride that would require.

I lust after him sexually. But this is because I lust after his soul. Sex could never be meaningless with him, but in the case that it were, I would not desire it.

I love him. But I do not love him as an equal. I love him as a writer loves his stories, as a chef loves his meals, and as a gardener loves his projects.

Were Ciel to offer himself to me, even as a suggestion, I would cease the chance, for sex is the closest I can be to the object of my purpose next to consuming his soul, the ecstasy of which I will not attempt to put to placement.

It is my passion for my job that makes me so "in love" with the young Phantomhive. This time more so than any time before.

My hunger could possibly be attributed to causing that, and there are, like Angela, those who have pointed to this as the reason. But the truth lies in a place more in the realm of personal preference. The emotional states of the souls that are digested give it its taste, and humans go through different emotional states throughout their life. Boys in the fall of their youth are my favorite. The contrast and conflict of their weakness and drive to strength is the perfect combination of agreements, and with my tasteful hands, they are brought to their fullest potential before I take them. Ciel is my Masterpiece.

He belongs to me as much as I belong to him. Our union is perfect; as am I, as is he.

The intimacy we share is emotional, but would it cross into the realm of physical, it would not be out of desire for an equal relationship, or a byproduct of my "lusty human shell." Instead it would be the manifestation, one of the many, of our codependency.

The manifestation of how I am the means, and he is the way.


	2. Silently Sebastian

And how could I not post a follow-up essay concerning my loss of Ciel's soul?

The anguish I felt at that moment—never before as a demon had I felt it. Such raw hatred. So strong that I couldn't feel it. My emotions stopped working, and for a terrible moment, I froze. My pulse echoed so loudly, and yet it was hollow. My body was hollow. I couldn't hear. Couldn't see.

And then my emotions returned to me, and they returned in such force that they themselves propelled me off that cliff, after my meal. At that moment, he was only a meal. My meal. My precious, precious meal, that I had spent years preparing. Dying. In the water. Dying. Mine. Demon. Dying. Mine. NO.

My mind could process nothing else.

To call on a precious analogy…if an artist, any type of artist, slaves away on one project for two, three years…lavishes all of his skill on it, loves it more dearly than anything else in the world, only to have it suddenly stolen. Plagiarized. And no matter what you do, you will never be able to claim it, enjoy it, write your name in the by-line. Surely it's akin to the loss of a child.

And when I stabbed him through the stomach, all I could think was "Please, die," because I would rather my artwork disappear forever than remain alive without my mark, and I forced to serve it. When he healed with the speed only a demon could manage, there was a certain pitfall of resignation. The moment of despair when you discover something so extraordinarily painful that all you can do is bear it.

I smiled. "Welcome home, Young Master."

There was nothing else to say.

And what follows.

A life of servitude. A life of living with a soul I can never consume, but will always be able to sense. I can taste it if I taste his blood, but now more than ever it is nearly impossible. The art never cares about the artist. Why would he let me have that? And would I even want it, such an unfulfilling appetizer.

We are in hell now, and I am, for the first time, miserable there. The teasing proximity. The longing. It will never go away, because I've gotten a lick, and never finished.

Oh, Ciel Phantomhive, you demon child, were there a way you could become mine.


End file.
